


Firsts

by Sherlock_a_Khan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1981701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock_a_Khan/pseuds/Sherlock_a_Khan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock's firsts</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first kiss

The first time they kissed it was raining outside, John remembers because he forgot the umbrella at home and couldn’t pull his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock’s curls sticking to his forehead, a frustrated look on the detective’s face as he tried to piece together the latest information of an already trying case.

He remembers pulling at his arm, trying to at least get him to go into the shop they were standing behind to get out of the rain but the detective was focused, almost ignorant to the fact that they were both completely drenched, thunder lighting the dark sky around them. 

John considered leaving him to his thoughts, walking to the street to hail a cab, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone when he was like this, so focused that he neglects to see other things around him. Not the obvious bad eating and sleeping habits, those were issues they were slowly conquering, it was the shadows they had to worry about. Moriarty’s shadows.

When John could no longer stand the rain beating down on him, his jacket soaked through and weighing heavily on his body, he moved to stand in front of Sherlock, his hands resting on the other man’s shoulders, eyes trying to draw attention to himself.

“Sherlock.” The name was swept away with the rain, Sherlock’s eyes flickering back and forth, activity that anyone else might have mistaken for some sort of seizure. John knew though, he could always tell when Sherlock was in his mind palace, always wanted to know what it was like in there.

The more he stood there, watched those eyes flicker, those lips move ever so faintly, the more he became drawn in, his hands unconsciously sliding from Sherlock’s shoulders to rest on either side of his neck in a gentle touch. John knew what was coming, tried to suppress the urge, the words “not gay” floating in his periphery, but he couldn’t stop the movement of his body as he found himself standing almost completely on his toes.

The initial connection of their lips didn’t produce fireworks, there was no sudden awakening in John that made him want to shove the other man against the wall and take him right there. Perhaps it was the lack of response from Sherlock, or the idea that he was in fact not gay, whatever it was he could feel the disappointment lingering in the back of his mind as he pulled away, his hands slipping down to rest on Sherlock’s chest as his feet fully reconnected with the ground.

When he forced himself to look at Sherlock’s face again he found the detective’s lips slightly parted, eyes no longer flickering in a rapid movement, his gaze instead fully fixed on the man in front of him. 

A loud clap of thunder startled John, made him jump, Sherlock unphased by the sound, the look of frustration replaced with confusion.

“Well then, let’s get out of the rain before we both catch a cold.” John’s words were uneasy, strained as he finally turned from Sherlock, still feeling eyes on him as he made his way to the street.


	2. The First Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are finally over, so hopefully I can knock out several chapters over the next few weeks.

After the third time John and Sherlock went to Angelo’s, John eventually accepted the small candle that always appeared, Angelo giving them a knowing smile that years later would finally hold some meaning. 

After a while John quit trying to convince Mrs. Hudson of his sexuality, and eventually stopped trying to interpret the meaning behind the looks that Mycroft and Lestrade would occasionally throw his way when they thought he wasn’t looking.

Molly quit pining after Sherlock, her glances of longing turning to sly grins when she would be in the same room with them, noticing the space between the two men becoming non-existent when Sherlock was looking through the microscope with John at his back, looking over his shoulder.

After the kiss in the rain John couldn’t help but finally notice these subtle changes, curious as to why everyone was so content in believing they were together despite his objections. If he even believed before the kiss that there might be something between them, those thoughts disappeared during the silent ride back to the flat, staring out the window, hoping the man next to him would ignore what happened.

And he seemed to, not mentioning any of it to John, not asking what he was thinking when he thought it would be a good idea to try and make out with him. Life continued as normal for several weeks until the wartime nightmares that used to plague his dreams started to come back, causing him to toss and turn in his bed, waking up covered in sweat with his heart racing.

Soon he was avoiding sleep, going to his room with the pretense that he was turning in for the night, instead waiting for the sound of Sherlock doing the same before he would return back to the sitting room with his laptop, trying to find things to distract him. Sometimes he would remain there until he got tired enough to crawl into his bed, other times he fell asleep in his chair, waking a few hours later to Mrs. Hudson bringing in the morning tea.

She didn’t question finding him curled up in his chair, instead waking him up with a slight nudge to the shoulder and a tray of tea and biscuits. He would thank her before taking a quick shower and getting dressed; emerging from his room about the same time Sherlock would come from his, his dressing gown hanging loosely on his shoulders.

John appeared increasingly tired each day, bags developing under his eyes. Mrs. Hudson was becoming worried but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, or at least John didn’t think so, failing to catch on that Sherlock was going to bed a little earlier each night.

The nightmares didn’t get much better falling asleep in the chair, but he felt slightly more comfortable there until he was awoken one early morning to someone grabbing him, shaking him. He tried to fight them off only to suddenly awaken to the sound of his name, finding Sherlock kneeling in front of him.

“John, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.” The voice was firm, soothing as John looked around himself, realizing that he wasn’t being attacked by the enemies, that he was in the safety of 221B.

“Come on, get up.” John wasn’t sure what was going on, why Sherlock was pulling him out of the chair. His mind was still hazy from the nightmare, his gait unsteady as he walked ahead of Sherlock to the detective’s room.

“Sherlock, what are we doing?”

“Just lay down.” Sherlock’s voice was firm again, telling John that there was no room for argument on his instructions. He felt uncomfortable as he lay in Sherlock’s bed on his side, facing the wall as he felt the bed dip down behind him, his body becoming tense.

“You’re not in the war John, you’re safe in this flat. Now go to sleep.”

John let out a heavy sigh, imagining what Sherlock would do if he were to get up and leave. He was afraid to find out. He only felt himself beginning to relax with the sound of Sherlock’s heavy breathing coming from behind him, signaling that the detective was asleep.

Within minutes John found himself falling asleep as well, the nightmares attempting to return but instead being forced away by the arms suddenly encircling his waist, the body pulling him close acting as a shield against all the demons creating a fitful sleep.

It was the first sleep free of nightmares John had experienced in almost two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this feels like it's going kind of slow, it's intentional. I thought I would take a different approach other than John and Sherlock just getting it on all the time. In my head it is more of a slow process with uncertainty and the gradual removal of the barriers between them. If you just want smut, go check out my other fic 'Variables', hopefully it too will have an update soon. ;)


	3. The First Embrace

It became a routine for John to sleep in Sherlock’s bed each night, waiting until after the detective was fast asleep before crawling under the covers in what soon became designated John’s spot in the bed. Some nights he would awake with Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, but most times not. 

John eventually came to the realization that it was on the nights when the nightmares began to appear that Sherlock would hold him close to his body, the mere touch chasing them away. He couldn’t tell whether the action was a subconscious one by the detective or whether Sherlock knew he was doing it, but he got used to the feeling of the other man against his back, strong arms protecting him.

The problem came one morning when John awoke to find that he must have turned over in his sleep, the two men’s noses almost touching as their heads shared the same pillow, breathing in each other’s air. The faintest of snores escaped from Sherlock’s slightly parted lips, his grip on John loose but firm.

John realized it was the first time he'd seen Sherlock so unguarded, his mind appearing to be shut down. There were no signs of the normal fast paced thoughts that were typically apparent in his facial expressions, no stress that seemed to come with the job of consulting detective.

John contemplated how exactly he got to this point in his life, sharing a bed with his best friend, blogging about their adventures together. He could hardly remember his life before Sherlock, before Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, DI Lestrade and even Molly. He wondered if he was the only one lucky enough to ever see Sherlock like this.

The longer John watched Sherlock sleep, the more he wondered if anything had changed since the first time he attempted to kiss him, the thoughts of the rain coming down around them and the look in Sherlock’s eyes afterwards making him shiver.

He wondered why everyone seemed to see something that wasn’t there, wondered if he was missing something that was. Did Sherlock feel the same as everyone else? If he did, he didn’t show it, not that he ever showed any type of emotion in that manner. Even holding John against his body at night felt platonic, something slightly more than friends might do, but not to the extreme that John believed Sherlock wanted to be shagging him into the mattress every night.

The detective was an enigma, no matter how long John spent with him he could never really quite figure him out. He wondered what it would be like in Sherlock’s head, what he thought about when they weren’t on a case. For hours he would lie on the couch or stand at the window, violin in hand, not saying a word. His expressions were hard to read, no emotion, and his body language was even less useful to interpret.

“What goes on in there?” The question was asked in a whisper, barely audible on John’s lips, not meant to be heard outside of his head. Sherlock shifted, John fearing that he might have woken him, but after a moment he settled back down, his face closer to John’s than before.

John was motionless, afraid to move, afraid to blink in fear of waking Sherlock. Sherlock mumbled something inaudible, his lips barely moving, his eyebrows coming together, and John could tell he was in the beginning of one of his own nightmares.

John could feel the panic rising in him; he wanted Sherlock to go back to the peaceful Sherlock of a few moments ago, no nightmares, no fears, just peace. He dealt with enough during his waking hours, the thought of being chased by demons in his sleep almost hurt John to the core. 

He wrapped his arm around Sherlock the way the detective did to chase away his nightmares but it didn’t seem to work, Sherlock’s body tensing up, his hands balling into fists against John’s back. When John gently rubbed his hand along Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb against the defined cheekbones, Sherlock finally began to relax, his hands flattening out against his back and his body leaning slightly forward into John.

After a moment the nightmare appeared to have retreated, but the feel of lips brushing against the corner of his lips and a whispered “thank you” told John that Sherlock had simply woken up, John not getting a chance to respond before the sound of heavy breathing departed Sherlock’s lips again.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The First Goodbye


	4. The First Goodbye

_“This phone call, it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”_

_“Leave a note when?”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

John ran as fast as his feet would carry him once he broke free from the arms of the bystanders, rushing into the hospital following the gurney carrying Sherlock. He was slowed down by patients in wheelchairs, on gurneys being moved about, John’s eyes never leaving the sight of his best friend until those pushing him entered the lift, his pleas for them to wait up going unnoticed as he watched the doors close, Sherlock finally leaving his sight.

He knew waiting on another lift would take too long, his feet carrying him to the stairs, tears stinging at his eyes as he heard his heartbeat in his ears, a tightening developing in his chest as he stepped off the last step and into the long corridor just in time to see the doors to the mortuary close.

He could see through the window, could see the lifeless arm hanging over the edge of the gurney, the crimson life hitting the floor as the body was transferred to a metal table. He could feel his breath catching as he got closer to the door, his world slowing down around him, his eyes never leaving Sherlock until Molly was suddenly in front of him, hand on his chest.

“You can’t go in there.”

“Mol-“

“I’ve got him now. I’ll take care of him.” Her voice was firm but sad, tears staining her face, the slightest of shake present in her hand that currently rested against John’s chest. He wanted to push her out of the way, wanted to ask how she could be so calm when the man they both cared so much about was gone, but he couldn't find the words, couldn't find the energy as she backed through the doors, turning only when she was sure that John wasn’t going to follow.

He stayed there for hours, in the hallway, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs as he sat on the floor. The thought of leaving Sherlock, alone on a cold slab in the basement of the hospital caused waves of pain to run through him, tears stinging at his eyes.

His emotions were crashing through him like tidal waves, anger and sadness playing a tug of war with his heart. He wanted to yell at Sherlock, wanted to hate him for walking into his life and turning it upside down, just to turn around and leave the shattered pieces all over the ground for John to pick up again, the jagged edges causing pain and tears.

He wanted to hate him, but even more so he wanted to hold him, lying in his bed, their bodies wrapped around each other in a futile attempt to make these nightmares go away. The thought of suddenly having to sleep at night alone made John feel short of breath, realizing that not only would the nightmares come back without Sherlock there to chase them away, but they would hit him full force with images of Sherlock’s fall mingling in, making his nights that much harder to survive.

John felt like the walls were starting to close in on him, his legs shaky as he pulled himself up the wall, his eyes on the doors to the mortuary. Tears were streaming down his face but he didn’t realize it, his breath coming out in small gasps. He suddenly had the urge to hold Sherlock, he didn’t care if he was bloody and broken, his skin cold, his eyes lifeless. Broken Sherlock was better than no Sherlock.

As John reached the mortuary door he felt a hand on his shoulder, and for the tiniest of moments he thought he would turn around to find Sherlock standing behind him, a grin on his face. He was disappointed instead to find Lestrade, his face darkened with sadness, eyes fighting back tears of his own.

“Molly called, she’s worried about you, said you refused to leave.” The tone is just as sad as the look in his eyes, sounding defeated, lost. He briefly glanced past John to the doors of the mortuary, but quickly made himself look away, distracting himself with the man in front of him.

“He’s in there Greg. He’s lying in there alone, cold, hurt-“

“And dead, John. “ He feels horrible about being blatantly honest, but he has been doing this long enough to know that it’s what some people need to separate the reality of the situation from whatever notion they have in their head of what’s happening.

“There’s nothing more you can do for him, John. Molly is with him, Molly will take care-“

“She can’t make the nightmares go away.” John cuts in angrily, his voice choked and broken, fighting back tears. Lestrade looks confused by the statement but doesn’t push it, John beginning to pace the hallway as he puts his hands in his hair, trying to grab some control of himself, feeling everything beginning to crumble at the edges.

“How could you, of all people, go along with Anderson and Donovan? How could you ever believe that Sherlock is anything other than who he says he is? He trusted you. He trusted you, and now, now he’s-“ John couldn’t get the last word out, his voice ebbing away to a whisper. He refused to believe Sherlock’s confession, refused to go along with the fabrication that he created Moriarty, and the guilt Lestrade was feeling when he walked in increased exponentially at the sight of John breaking down in front of him.

"John-"

"No. You don't get to sit back and watch them destroy Sherlock's reputation, tear him down, parade him into the public with his hands cuffed, and then show up here. You could have defended him, you could have stopped this from happening. He considered you a friend, he trusted you.”

John’s words started off loud, angry, but tapered off until they were just above a whisper and broken, the tears flowing heavier.

“I didn’t expect for this to happen.” The words were sincere, honest, but they fell on deaf ears, John’s hands falling to his sides as he stopped pacing just in front of the mortuary doors, the DI’s reflection appearing in the small windows encased in the stainless steel.

“Just leave.” John left no room for argument as he pushed through the doors of the mortuary, leaving Lestrade behind as he entered the cold quiet intake room. Numbness started to set into his mind as he pushed through another door that led him to Molly’s location, red rimmed eyes looking up at John over the white sheet clad body laid out on the steel table, hands the only exposed portion of the body that John could see.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.” Her voice was reminiscent of a small, sad child, her eyes reflecting as much as she forced the tears to disappear with failed results.

John couldn’t focus on anything but the body, on the long slender fingers that played the violin like it was a part of his being, the hands that would find themselves steepled in concentration when they were in the depths of a case. He found his own hand shaking as he reached out, his body going cold at the lifelessness he encountered when his fingertips brushed over Sherlock’s hand, those hands that would wrap around him at night and make his nightmares disappear.

He didn’t register Molly walking around the table, didn’t notice her standing next to him until her hand was on his wrist, gentle but firm. She pulled him into a hug, but his arms remained lifeless by his sides, eyes never leaving the hands until she pulled back, gripping his shoulders.

“John, you have to let him go.”

When he was finally able to pull his gaze from Sherlock’s hand and focus on Molly in front of him, he found that her eyes held almost as much pain as his own. It was in that moment he realized that he wasn’t the only one Sherlock left behind, his mind finally pulling itself out of the well of self-pity, his tunnel vision disappearing only to be replaced with further despair at the thought of Sherlock leaving a hole behind in everyone’s lives.

With that thought John could almost feel himself crumble, realizing that he needed to get to Mrs. Hudson before anyone else could, break the news to her, be the one to hold her when she found out there would no longer be violin music filtering down from their flat, no more science experiments to clean up. It’s not a task he was looking forward to, primarily because it meant leaving Sherlock, but he reminded himself that he’s a soldier, a captain, and he needed to stand straight with his head held high.

“Take care of him Molly.” It’s said with a sudden change in his voice, from broken to firm, a captain giving his soldier a command. He allowed his new façade to falter only long enough to brush his fingers over Sherlock’s hand again before giving a stiff nod in his direction, his posture suddenly straight as he wordlessly exited the mortuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up: The First Night Alone
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and reviews, you're all great.


	5. The First Night Alone

John found little time of his own to grieve once he broke the news to Mrs. Hudson, the woman who was so much like a mother to the two men breaking down in John’s arms, her grip on his jacket tight, the tears soaking into his shirt as he held her against his chest. He rubbed her back, attempted soothing words, but the longer he stayed with her the more he felt himself pulling away from his own emotions, burying them deep within himself.

He allowed himself to get so tied up in one person, their lives becoming so intermingled that he wasn’t sure where to start, what thread to pull at to begin unraveling the mess. Once he was able to pull Mrs. Hudson off of him and get her a soother to help her sleep, he found himself sitting in his chair, the quietness surrounding him, dust appearing as if it were already beginning to settle around him as he rested his head on his hand.

For several hours he sat in silence, the world dark outside the windows, his mind unable to settle enough to allow him to sleep. It was only when he started smelling something foul emanating from the kitchen that he finally pulled himself to his feet, beginning a process of cleaning up and ridding the flat of Sherlock’s experiments that lasted for several hours, the end of it finding all of Sherlock’s lab equipment cleaned and returned to the table as if he were about to come from his room and sit behind the microscope at any moment.

For a fleeting moment, standing in the kitchen next to the table, John found himself getting angry, enraged at Sherlock. He wanted to pick up each of the beakers and throw them against the wall with as much force as he could muster, wanted to sever each of the strings on his violin, wanted to smash the skull to bits on the ground, but he closed his eyes, nostrils flaring for a brief moment before he found the strength to bury the emotion again, hands shaking as he walked out of the kitchen.

When his phone started buzzing in his pocket, John ignored the call and turned the phone off, only looking at the screen long enough to see Mike Stamford’s name flash across the screen before it went black. The anger threatened to make a reappearance, and the flat began to feel constricting, John trying to calm himself with several deep breaths; the very person who started him down this path is the last person he wanted to communicate with.

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, the fatigue finally starting to get to him as he felt himself sway on his feet. He stood in the doorway just outside of the kitchen contemplating his next move, whether sleep would even be possible at this point. His body was telling him yes, but a nagging at the back of his head was telling him it would be far from a peaceful sleep and not to bother with it.

After almost stumbling on his feet, John decided that at least making an attempt would be better than not, knowing that there were a lot more obstacles to deal with over the next few weeks. As the sun was rising, he imagined that some people were just learning of Sherlock’s death, of the downfall of the consulting detective. John knew the papers would be smearing his name, losing in the battle against Moriarty. It was everything the consulting criminal hoped for, and it made John’s stomach turn.

The thought followed John to Sherlock’s room, the decision on where he would attempt sleep an easy one to make. It had been almost two months since John last slept in his own bed, the room at the top of the stairs all but forgotten as he found himself storing stuff in Sherlock’s room absentmindedly. It was at Sherlock’s insistence when John would sleep past his alarm and found himself having to rush upstairs to get a fresh set of trousers and a jumper that Sherlock told him he had no issue with him using space in his closet. The separation between the clothes was obvious, several of John’s favorite jumpers hanging alongside the expensive suits that Sherlock wore, but just like waiting until Sherlock fell asleep to enter the room and do the same, John waited until Sherlock made the move himself to hang up some of his clothes in his closet. Otherwise John felt like he was imposing, taking something that didn’t belong to him.

He wondered at what point he became so dependent on Sherlock, but the thought of the dreams was a quick reminder, a twinge of pain felt in his neck when he thought about the nights spent sleeping in his chair. He often wondered what triggered the nightmares to begin again in the first place, but could never quite put his thumb on it, instead just glad he, or Sherlock for that matter, found a way to stop them.

It took John a moment to build up the courage to open Sherlock’s door, and when he did, it felt like he was beginning to feel inside, empty. Of course he had been in there plenty of times when Sherlock wasn’t around, but this time was different, almost as if the spirit was gone from the room.

John stood silently a few steps inside the door, trying to _feel_ Sherlock’s presence, but he soon realized it was of no use as he looked around at everything the detective left behind. The act of suicide was a quick decision, John believed, nothing in Sherlock’s actions the previous day pointed to the detective’s final fate. He wondered what Sherlock’s last thoughts were as he walked out of the room, wondered if he took into consideration that he wouldn’t be back, that everything that was _him_ would be left behind for others to deal with. He wondered if Sherlock realized he would be leaving him behind, if he even cared.

It was the final thought that broke John where he stood, his legs giving out from under him as he crumbled to the ground, legs tucked up under him as the sobs began wracking through his body, his face buried in his hands. His whole body felt as cold as Sherlock’s hand in the mortuary, his sight becoming clouded with the vision of blood when he closed his eyes. He felt like the flood gates were opening, unable to stop them, and he knew exactly what Sherlock would say if he were to see him right now but he didn’t care, Sherlock no longer got a say in how John acted or reacted.

For almost an hour John remained in a heap on the floor, pathetic sounds escaping his throat as he cursed Sherlock, declared his hate for what he had done. He knew Sherlock cared for little other than himself, but this was much more than that, and it was a decision John could no longer handle.

When he finally managed the strength to pull himself up off the floor, John gave one last look around the room, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. He couldn’t pretend to be a solider anymore, the stoic expression gone as he found the strength to leave the room, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair before leaving the flat for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I spend more time having to re-read and correct this fic than I do actually writing it. I don’t ever write in past tense, and I keep forgetting that. Hopefully I haven’t missed any flub ups, forgive me if I have. There’s a method to the madness that you’ll see in the end.


	6. The First Return

For two years John struggled, through depression and anger that eventually led to drinking. He wasn't shy about it at first, spending most nights in the bar, but eventually he got tired of the murmuring amongst the others, Molly going so far as to bring up his sister’s drinking habit.

After a while, John found himself hiding out in his small run down flat, managing to sober up only long enough to attend the surgery a few times a week. Mrs. Hudson would come by to check on him, making a few comments here and there about getting out and finding _another one_ , but he gave her empty promises that she easily picked up on as she cleaned up the flat around him.

A few times Lestrade attempted to come by, to make amends, but it all fell flat when the door was abruptly slammed in his face, John not having the time or emotional capacity to deal with the man that allowed this all to happen in the first place, that betrayed all of their trust as he escorted Sherlock into the public eye with his wrists cuffed.

It was no surprise to John that Mycroft never bothered to come by, he couldn’t even be bothered to attend the funeral of his own brother, let alone visit the broken man he left behind. John failed to notice in his continuous state of alcohol and self-pity the frequent deposits made into his bank account, small enough to seem inconspicuous, but enough to keep him from getting kicked out of his flat.

The nightmares got progressively worse over the years, the terror of the war intermingling with Sherlock’s death, and it was those nights he hit the bottle the hardest, painfully aware of the hangover he would have in the morning, the time long since passed that he could hold his hand steady enough to establish his own IV line, administer his own concoction of medications and fluid to quail the painful retching that always followed a night of blood filled dreams.

In the beginning he would get complaints from his neighbors, worries that the horrendous screaming coming from his flat at night were that of someone he was torturing, but after a while they realized it was only he who had been tortured, and they eventually moved away, unable to handle the screams emanating from the flat night after night.

The two year anniversary of Sherlock’s death was the hardest, a struggle to get out of bed, to drag himself into the shower to wash off three days’ worth of body odor that had settled over him since his last shift at the surgery.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a good while, debating on whether or not to shave the thick beard that had grown over the past few weeks, realizing that it had aged him a good bit. After a short battle with himself he finally decided it would be for the best, realizing that this might be the last time for a while he would be sober enough to accomplish the task without creating a bloody mess.

Although his hands continued to shake he took his time, knicking himself only twice before washing his face off, his hair still wet from the shower, his robe hanging loosely off of his thinned frame.

He aged more so than the two years that Sherlock had been gone, his hair considerably more gray and worry lines creasing his face. The amount of time spent stationary, lying in bed or sitting on the couch with a bottle in his hands caused his joints to feel stiffer, aching when he stood up. If Sherlock were still in his life, he couldn’t imagine being able to chase anyone down in the condition he found himself in.

When he finally managed to pull himself away from the pathetic notion of a man he found himself staring at in the reflection of the mirror, John returned to his bedroom, pulling on the only suit he managed to find in his wardrobe that didn’t absolutely _consume_ him. If anything the extra space made it appear to the outside world that he was still a whole man underneath, that a part of him didn’t physically and emotionally die outside of St. Bart’s that day.

After one last look in the mirror, John grabbed his suit jacket and left the flat, considering only momentarily on whether or not to hail a cab, eventually settling on walking the short distance to his destination.

He kept his head down in fear of being recognized, not wanting to see the pitiful looks staring back at him, the low whispers about the former blogger of the long dead consulting detective. Having Sherlock’s name finally cleared only created an excess of unwanted sympathy for John, and he found himself pulling away even more so recently, ignoring the soft knocks at the door from Mrs. Hudson or Molly.

As he reached the cemetery John couldn’t help but pause at the iron gate, taking a deep breath as he looked at the vast expanse of marble and stone markers, some centuries old, others day new. Off to his left a woman stood in front of a fresh grave, tears streaming from her eyes as she clutched a bouquet of flowers to her chest, her lips moving in silent words.

She didn’t appear to notice John as he walked past her, his gaze set off in a spot towards the back of the cemetery, along the edge of the trees, somewhat secluded. The grass was neatly trimmed around the black marble, a sign that someone had been taking care of it, and he wondered if it were just the cemetery workers, or if someone other than himself bothered visiting it anymore. He decided on the latter when he noticed the small bouquet of flowers sitting at the base, the edges showing no sign of wilting, a sign that they were only recently placed in the past twenty-four hours.

“I guess I’m not the only one who remembered.” The words were quiet, John not sure who they were directed at exactly. He stood in the same spot many times over the years, his words coming fewer and far between, eventually leading to short silent visits that mostly consisted of John wishing he could wake up from the horrible nightmare he found himself in. The visits were always ended with a light touch of the headstone and a silent prayer for Sherlock not to be dead, but after two years and the development of a drinking habit, John found his thoughts empty, his hand heavy as he touched the headstone.

He searched within himself for some sort of emotion, anger or despair, _anything_ , but he only felt empty, his hand shaking after a moment, not stopping when he let it drop to his side. He squeezed it into a fist, trying to stop it, but his attempts were futile, his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm as he turned to leave, the tremors finally leaving his hand as his eyes locked on the figure in front of him.

“Hello John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is most likely the last. Since the beginning I've considered ending it on a not so happy note, but after reading and re-reading and putting a lot of thought into it, I think I've come up with the perfect ending. I've also lowered the rating from mature, don't hate me for that. I hope you come back for the end.


	7. The First Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the massive delay, but the last chapter is finally here.

 

The pain in John's hand dulled with each shot he took, an angry purple bruise forming across his knuckles as his hand rested on the sticky bar top. To the least, John knew he had a hairline fracture or two, and he couldn't help but wince as he placed the bag of ice back over it to try and quail some of the edema already forming.

The anger still remained dormant below the surface, his eyes narrowed as he swallowed down another shot of strong liquor, a sting in the back of his throat only momentarily taking his mind off of the pain in his hand as he slams the glass back down on the bar top, causing the bartender to glare at him from several feet away.

John signals for another drink, but the bartender looks at the row of empty shot glasses in front of him and shakes his head, turning his attentions back to the woman ordering several mixed drinks for the group of ladies she’s with.

Being cut off doesn't help John's mood any as he curses under his breath and pushes himself away from the bar, throwing down enough money to cover the nine shots that are now coursing through his system, his vision swimming and his gait unsteady as he loosens his grip from the bar and stumbles towards the exit.

The cold air hitting his face causes him to stumble more so than the alcohol, and he manages to steady himself with one hand against the wall, his knees almost buckling under him as he cries out and curses loudly, quickly shifting his weight and pulling his injured hand back to his chest as if it had just made contact with Sherlock’s jaw again.

_“Sherlock?”_

_The word is just above a whisper, being carried away with the wind as John suddenly takes a step back, almost as if he’s afraid of the man in front of him. When Sherlock moves forward, he takes another step back, feeling the presence of the black marble headstone brushing against his pant leg._

_“John-“_

_“You’re dead. You jumped, there was blood. You’re not here right now.”_

_The alcohol is finally getting to him, or at least that’s the only explanation John can come up with as he reaches his hand behind him, feeling the cold stone, trying to bring himself back to reality._

_“John, I am very much here right now. It was my only option, leaving. I had to get rid of Moria-“ his voice is cut off by the choked ‘no’ escaping John’s lips repeatedly, his eyes squeezing closed as he shakes his head, as if it can get rid of the man standing inches in front of him._

_“No, Sherlock.”_

The memory replays in John’s head as he finds himself stumbling down the street, the alcohol coursing through his system making the cold air tolerable, his focus blurred as to where he’s going.

_“John.”_

_The feel of a hand on John’s jacket forces his eyes to suddenly snap open as he pushes Sherlock away from him, the detective stumbling back several steps as he’s caught off guard by the movement._

_“Get away from me, don’t touch me!”_

_The words are choked and angry, John’s hands sliding down to his knees as he leans over, trying to catch his breath, trying to contain the pain that is aching within his chest. The touch of Sherlock’s hand against his jacket was very much real, John thinks as he almost feels it burning into his skin, feeling the warmth of life spreading from the spot._

_He feels trapped, between the headstone and the being of Sherlock Holmes, a shadow lingering over him as his once dear friend, the man who changed the course of his life, stands in front of him, the shadow getting steadily closer, taking another dangerous chance to approach the doctor._

_This time when he touches John, the older man allows the anger rising up in him to take control, his fist clenched tight as he stands up straight, crying out in pain as he feels a crack in his knuckles with their contact against Sherlock’s face, the detective stumbling back and losing his balance as he falls to the ground._

_Sherlock holds his face while John holds his hand, feeling on the verge of collapse as his respirations are speeding out of control, his heart palpitating in his chest as he stumbles past Sherlock, the detective making no effort to stop him as he feels the blood drain from his nose and past his lips._

John’s respirations increase just replaying in his head the events that happened at the cemetery, and he feels like his vision is almost swimming as he finally stumbles to a stop, only slightly surprised to find that he’s stopped right in front of 221B, the knocker on the door angled slightly.

He contemplates only for a second on whether or not he should pay Sherlock a visit, knowing that there is a possibility that he might take another swing at the detective, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take as he climbs the steps, the flat quiet with the night, the door unlocked as John reaches the top of the stairs.

Not much has changed in his formal living space as he stands in the kitchen, noticing the absence of dust on Sherlock’s lab equipment. As he continues to look around he comes to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson must have continued to dust throughout the flat despite the absence of the detective and his blogger, and for a moment he feels a twinge of guilt for not coming by more often to check on the old landlady.

The more he walks through the flat, the more he feels himself sobering up, the fingers of his uninjured hand gently grazing over familiar items as he passes by them. The material of his favorite chair is rough but perfect as usual, the desk littered with books and papers, the union jack pillow tossed lazily on the couch. The case of Sherlock’s violin sits open on the table between the detective and blogger’s chairs, and a faint sound emits from the strings of the instrument as fingers glide over them, sending a chill down John’s spine.

He knows Sherlock was here, the violin tucked safely away in its closed case next to Sherlock’s chair the last time he came by the flat, and he finds himself turning towards the detective’s room, the door cracked open slightly as John makes his way down the hallway, unknowingly trying to remain quiet.

The light from the street lamps outside cast across the room and the figure laying in the bed, and John can’t help but feel himself tense up ever so slightly, trying hard to keep the anger to a minimum, feeling the searing pain in his hand as he clutches it into a fist at his side.

Sherlock lay on his side under the sheets, facing John with his eyes closed and oblivious to the visitor that has found his way into his room. It doesn’t take much light for John to see the bruise that has formed across the side of Sherlock’s face, a slight hint of swelling noted around the eye socket as movement underneath the eyelid signals Sherlock is dreaming, the slight twitching movement of his body telling John it isn’t exactly a pleasant dream.

He begins to wonder why he came here, the sight of the man who lied to him for so long, the man who put him through so much pain, laying there in front of him, sleeping as if nothing happened. He wants to scream, wants to hit him again and again, try to show Sherlock what the pain felt like every day for the past two years, the unrelenting punch in the gut every time the detective’s name was mentioned, every time he passed by Baker Street. He wants Sherlock just to not be there, because that was an emotion he could understand, an emotion he could cope with, albeit with the assistance of alcohol.

This emotion, however, this divided line between anger and relief, between wanting to hit the man and hug the man, it’s an emotion that John doesn’t know how to handle, how to react to, how to tolerate. The frustration builds in him, tears welling up in his eyes as he tries to separate the feelings, tries to _understand_ the situation, but finally he knows that it won’t help, rubbing his uninjured hand over his face before turning back to the door, stopping mid stride when he hears the faint sound of his name being called.

He pauses, frozen in the spot momentarily before slowly turning back to the bed, the pained look on Sherlock’s face registering as the detective pulls himself into a sitting position, his back straighter than usual, a slight wince pulling at the edges of his lips and burning in his eyes. It looks much more than just the pain caused by the injury to his face, but John remains oblivious to the truth hidden underneath Sherlock’s shirt, faint traces of blood staining the back of the dark material from the wounds opened when John knocked him to the ground hours before.

Sherlock makes no mention of it, feeling now that he deserves pain much worse than what he’s experiencing, realizing just how effected John has become by his departure two years ago. He figured the doctor would be happy to know he was alive, but in his vast inability to understand certain social cues, Sherlock overlooked the fact that perhaps John would view his faked death as a betrayal to their friendship.

“It appears that perhaps I should have handled coming back a little differently.”

The words are quiet, John allowing himself to look into the detectives eyes as he speaks, and he can’t help but let a pained laugh escape from deep within him, disbelief clouding his face.

“Coming back? You think you could have handled coming back differently?!” His tone is incredulous, the anger that he was doing so well at controlling starting to boil up again as he takes a step towards Sherlock, the detective’s mouth opening slightly, realizing that perhaps he might have said the wrong thing yet again.

“John, what I meant was-“

“No, Sherlock, just shut up. You bloody left and went trapsing around the world while I stayed here, alone. I tried, I tried so hard to accept why you did it, why you would kill yourself when you could have just talked to me, but then I realized I was fooling myself. I knew why you did it, it was in front of me the whole time. You never take anyone else’s feelings into consideration, we’re all just a bunch of morons to you, a bunch of idiots. We don’t compare to the intellect of the great Sherlock Holmes, but you know what? We survived, we all made it without you. That says something about us, that says something about you.”

John’s lungs heave in his chest, his voice suddenly sober as he stands mere feet from the man he has mourned for over two years, the man that took everything with him the day he jumped off the roof of St. Barts.

"I hate you." The words hold anger, a hint of malice, but his eyes are soft as he stares at the head of curls he has missed so much, Sherlock’s eyes downcast to the floor as he whispers “I know”. The words are followed by silence, John closing his eyes, trying to fight the tears that escape despite his great efforts. He feels the anger slowly begin to drain from his body as the silence is suddenly broken by the faintest of sounds, cloth moving, and he opens his eyes to see that Sherlock has crawled back into the bed, curled on his side with knees drawn to his chest, back facing John.

"You should have told me." The sound of defeat is present in John’s voice as he steps closer to the bed, his shadow spreading over Sherlock as another faint “I know" escapes from the detective’s lips.

John stands silent, staring at Sherlock’s back, looking for something else to say, but he suddenly feels too tired, too emotionally drained to fight anymore. He wants to keep hating the detective, for the pain and anguish he has put him through, but instead he finds himself circling around to the other side of the bed, kneeling in front of Sherlock until the detective’s only option is to look at him.

Tears stain the cheeks of the younger man, and John can’t help but reach out and wipe them away with the pads of his thumbs, continuing to hold Sherlock’s face in his hands even after his cheeks are dry, ignoring the pain that’s burning from his injured hand and spreading up his arm.

“I missed you.”

“I know.”

The moment is comfortable as they stare at each other, words barely above a whisper, Sherlock’s hand reaching out to grab the wrist of John’s uninjured hand, holding onto him as if he’s afraid that he will leave him. He waits for John to say something else, wants to hear his voice until he no longer has the ability to hear, but the air stays silent between them until Sherlock finally breaks it, closing his eyes briefly before staring into those of the man in front of him.

“I love you.”

John pulls his hand from Sherlock’s grasp and stands up, the detective closing his eyes before he feels the blanket over him shift and finds the bed sinking in front of him, his eyes coming to meet John as the doctor lays down inches from him, his hand returning to Sherlock’s cheek.

“I know.”


End file.
